When poor Mama long restless lies
She drinks the poppy's juice;
That liquor soon can close her eyes,
And slumber soft produce:
O then my sweet, my happy boy
Will thank the Poppy-flower,
Which brings the sleep to dear Mama,
At midnight's darksome hour.

Sara Coleridge, Pretty Lessons in Verse for Good Children (1853)

Though the Philistines may jostle, you will rank as an apostle in the high aesthetic band,
If you walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily in your medieval hand.

I sing the Poppy! The frail snowy weed!
The flower of Mercy! that within its heart
Doth keep "a drop serene" for human need,
A drowsy balm for every bitter smart.
For happy hours the Rose will idly blow ,
The Poppy hath a charm for pain and woe.

Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare,
And left the flushed print in a poppy there:
Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came,
And the fanning wind puffed it to flapping flame.
With burnt mouth red like a lion's it drank
The blood of the sun as he slaughtered sank,
And clipped its cup in the purpurate shine
When the eastern conduits ran with wine.